The Executioner
by aranenumenesse
Summary: A prisoner gets a chance of a new life.


_AU. Happens somewhere around middle ages. Rogan. Warning: Character death, religious issues, dark themes._

* * *

There was only one way to survive. Only one way to avoid the sword. Executioner had a right to pick a convict of his liking to do as he pleased with said individual. Convict would get a year. Year in during which his or her case would be re-evaluated, under watchful eyes of the executioner. If after a year the executioner was pleased and convict showed remorse and had behaved well, there would be a chance of getting free.

* * *

She sat at the far end of the cell, tangled, brown and greasy hair hanging over her face and hands curled around her knees when other women in her cell started primping and preening themselves and fighting for the best places at the bars. Many of them went as far as to remove their shirts to reveal their breasts to catch the attention of the executioner, toying with their nipples to get them perk up. She didn't bother. She really didn't have breasts to speak of, there was a gap between her front teeth that in her opinion marred her visage beyond ugliness, and she was weak from malnourishment. Executioner would be looking for a woman capable of serving his every need, not a ratty mouse who could barely stand on her own two feet. So when the footsteps approached the cell she curled even further in to the corner she had come to regard as her own during her long stay at the prison and turned her back to the squabbling mob of women blocking the doorway. 

"…Hookers and thieves, mostly. And one murderer."

"Murderer?"

"Killed her husband. Though I can not understand for the life of mine how she managed that."

"Which one?"

"She's at the back. You want me to get her for you?"

She could hear them talking. Two men. The guard and the executioner. And they were talking about her. Well, it didn't matter. Even if the guard called her forth, executioner would most likely pick somebody else after seeing her.

"Bring her to my chambers. I'll look in to it. If she's not suitable, bring that one over there. The one with red hair and shirt still on."

"I'll do that."

When the door opened and the guard started to push back the wallowing crowd of half naked women she stood up to avoid getting stepped on. Women were screeching, shouting obscenities and spitting at the guard, but he forced them back.

"Rogue! Get over here!" She pushed through the crowd, wincing when somebody grabbed her hair, and nearly tripped over when somebody stepped on her toes, but she forced her way through. It would be a false hope, executioner would send her back as soon as he laid his eyes on her, but at least she would get out from the cell, even if it were just for a short moment.

She had to stop and lean against the wall when the guard locked the cell door. Struggling through the blockade her cellmates had tried to form had drained every bit of strength from her, and her knees were shivering from the sheer exhaustion.

"Come on now. He's waiting for you," the guard urged her and she forced her legs to cooperate.

Walk from the cellblock to executioner's chambers wasn't very long, but she was already stumbling, grasping support from the walls and gasping air out of breath when they reached the heavy oak door. The guard was about to knock on the door when he suddenly turned to her. Arranged her tattered clothing, pushed back the greasy mop of hair and wiped her face with a handkerchief.

"No matter what you did, you still deserve a fair chance against those hags…" Man muttered, brushed her shirt and trousers one last time and knocked on the door.

"Leave us. I'll call you when I have made my decision," executioner said and waved his hand to the guard.

He just sat there, behind his desk in complete silence, evaluating her. She stood under his scrutiny, trying not to fidget or avoid his gaze, but rather answer it with her own. This gave her a chance to observe him as well. He was tall. She could tell it from the way he sat, slightly hunched, both feet sticking out from under the table. Broad shoulders and strong arms, most likely the end result from wielding the heavy sword that hung behind him on the wall. Long. Black hair tied back, dark shade coloring his jaw. Wide palms crossed in front of him on the table. Hazel eyes scanning every inch of her, as if he could see straight through the ragged clothes she wore.

"Murder?" He spoke with a low, raspy voice, so low that at first she had hard time hearing him, so he had to rephrase his question.

"You killed your husband?"

"Yes." She forced back the nausea and sadness forming inside of her. She had cried over the matter enough. No more tears over that grave.

"Are you proud of it?"

"No."

"Would you do it again?"

"Yes."

"Why did you do it?"

"He killed the child I was carrying and made me barren."

"I see. Were you a good wife?"

"Yes."

"So he had no reason to believe that the child you were carrying wasn't his?"

"No. No reason at all."

"And if I were to question his friends, what would I hear? What was the state of his home under your hand? Was the heath kept warm? Rooms tidy? Linens clean and in order? His clothes in presentable condition?"

"Y…"

"Don't lie to me. I will ask about these things from the people that knew your husband."

"I was a good wife. I would have been a good mother hadn't God decided otherwise."

She kept her back straight and her head high even when it took all her will not to crouch down and start cursing and spitting at the man sitting in front of her and judging her with his words. What right did he have to question her honesty? She wasn't a liar. She wouldn't even be here if it wasn't for that fateful night when she had finally gotten enough and in sudden bout of rage buried the poker in to her husband's chest.

She remembered it all clearly. How she had gotten in to bed early because her back was hurting, whether from the weight of the child, or from the beating Carl had given her earlier she hadn't known. She had just fallen asleep when Carl had stumbled in to their bedroom, utterly drunk, reeking of booze and cheap perfume she could smell every time she walked past the tavern, coming off in waves from the scantily clad women sitting on the front porch of that establishment.

She still didn't know what had spurred Carl, what had possessed him to grab her and throw her down the stairs in to the kitchen. But the fall had broken something precious inside of her. She had felt hot gush of blood between her thighs, and suddenly the pain in her back hadn't been as much of an issue as the pain cramping her stomach had been.

Several months after the miscarriage and no new child in her womb had made Carl angry and bitter. He had started to accuse her of witch's crafts. That she had somehow made herself barren, unfit for a wife.

It had all come to an end when he had returned home at the early hours of dawn, drunk as a skunk, telling that he was going to get rid of her. Get rid of the filthy, lazy slut he had married out of whim so that he could replace her with a proper wife who was at least able to give him children. He had been approaching her with bare hands. Surely big ox of a man like him was able to subdue and kill fragile creature like her? She had grabbed the first thing she had been able to reach; sharp poker she normally used to crash big charred lumps of wood in the fireplace. She had warned Carl, but he had just laughed and lunged towards her. Poker had pierced his chest, straight through his heart.

"Hmph. It really doesn't matter if you were a good wife or not. What matters is whether you're willing to repent your ways or not," executioner murmured, rubbing his jaw, deep in thought.

"I'm looking for a suitable person to take care of my household. Keep the place tidy and clean, cook for me, carry water and wood… You don't look strong enough," he continued.

"I'm strong. I can cook. I can sew. I can even read and write… I can…"

"Reading and writing are not needed in the work I have to offer. And strong? Look at you! You can barely stand on your own!"

She smiled all the way back in to the cell. She hadn't even expected to be picked out, but at least she had gotten a small reprieve from the crowded, stinking hellhole she was to call her home until her trial and execution.

* * *

Days went by. There really was nothing to do except guard her hard earned spot by the window and occasionally fight over scraps of food guards delivered in to the cell. She was actually waiting the moment they would cart her to the market place. One swing of the sword and it would all be over. No torturing or flogging for her, because she intended to plead guilty when asked. No need to purge her soul when she was ready and willing to commit her sins. 

"Rogue!" Was this it? Was her long wait really over? She stood up, and the crowd parted from around her. The guard stood side by side with the executioner at the door. The executioner dwarfed the guard with his size, spreading cloud of heavy, dark air and anticipation around him with his long, dark cloak that accentuated the width of his shoulders and the grim look on his face. But why only one guard? Wasn't she even worthy of a proper escort?

She stepped forth little hesitantly, brushing back her long hair and smoothing the crinkles from her clothes.

"Enough with the primping now. Get out from there," the executioner murmured, his voice echoing from the stone walls. She walked fast past the bars, and the door slammed shut behind her.

"Do you need these?" Guard asked, handing a heavy set of rattling chains to the executioner. Man snorted, quick smile tugging the corner of his mouth.

"Leave them. She can barely walk as it is, I'm not planning to carry her."

She flinched when they stepped outside of the prison, sun hitting her on full force making her eyes water. Strong hand grasped her elbow, steadying her until she had the time to adjust to the fresh air. The guard. Executioner was already walking forward with long strides, parting the crowd as he went.

"We better hurry up," the guard whispered and pushed her forward, keeping his hand on her arm to give her something to lean on in case she stumbled again. She took deep, calming breaths and tried to keep her pose. She wasn't going to be dragged under the sword crying and writhing like a dog. She was going to walk there on her own, her head held high, because she hadn't done anything wrong.

"Where are we going?" She asked puzzled when rather than walking straight to the market place where executions took place the guard guided her towards the gates of the town.

"Do as he tells you to do, don't run, and behave," guard whispered to her, shoving her forward and turning back towards the prison looming behind their backs. She stumbled forward, but managed to gain her balance before she collided against big, black stallion standing in her way. First thing she noticed were the animal's enormous hooves, pounding against the ground when it got surprised of her sudden approach. Then the sword. In a sheath hanging against the stallion's shiny, black side. The executioner. On his horse rather than standing behind her with the sword poised to strike.

He didn't ride fast, but she was still forced to run to keep up with his horse. The executioner lived outside of the town, away from fearful eyes of the people; yet close enough to perform his duties when the need arose. When they got in to his lodging she was ready to keel over, out of breath and robbed from what little strength she had had.

"Go and get cleaned up. There' some clothes for you by the fireplace," the executioner grunted and started taking care of his horse.

She entered the small hut hesitantly, fully expecting to see evidence of his grim occupation. Instead she faced small but cozy kitchen with open fireplace, and stairs to the second floor. There was a pail of water, and a bar of soap next to it on a table in front of the fireplace. A red shirt, skirt with the same color, and a white apron were neatly folded on a chair. There was also a comb to tame her hair and get rid of the lice, as well as a red ribbon to tie back her long locks when she was finished.

For a moment she just stood there, everything falling in to place slowly. She had gotten a year. For what reason she did not know. But she wasn't planning to ask either. She washed herself quickly and threw the rags she had been wearing in to the fireplace. Flames ate them greedily while she put on her new clothes and started tackling with her hair. Obviously the executioner had wanted her to be in presentable condition.

She was braiding her hair, sitting on a chair next to the fireplace when he stepped in, darkening the doorstep momentarily, seemingly dragging cold, bitter and stale air in after him. He closed the door after him, and turned to look at her.

"You may rest tonight, but I expect you to start your duties tomorrow."

"Yes."

"You wake up at dawn, light the fire, then feed the horse. After that you prepare my breakfast."

"What else?" That couldn't be the whole extent of her duties.

"You should know. After all, you were a good wife. There's always something that needs repairing, cleaning or washing. You may choose in which order you go on about your tasks, but at the end of the day I'm expecting everything to be in order, house warm, and good meal on the table."

"Very well. And… Thank you. Thank you for giving me a chance."

"Don't thank me yet."

* * *

She sat by the fireplace, watching as he repaired the saddle of his horse and started sharpening the sword. Movement of the whetstone over the gleaming steel was mesmerizing, as was the play of his fingers when he tested the blade. His hands were much larger than Carl's had been, forearms strong and covered with dark hair. White shirt he wore under the black vest looked worn, but clean. Just as the black leather trousers he wore. She stared at his hands unashamed, her head nodding slightly with each passing it took over the blade, screeching sound of it oddly calming and comforting. Her eyes started to close with every stroke, the voice of it going straight in to her skull and spine, instead of dread and fear spreading warmth and nice tingling feeling to her whole body. 

"Tired?" She heard him asking and forced her eyes open. He was still working on his sword, his eyes fixed on the task at hand.

"Little. It has been an eventful day," she whispered, covering her mouth when wide yawn escaped.

"There's a bed for you on top the fireplace. Behind the chimney. Go. Sleep. You need your strength tomorrow."

There was a surprisingly soft mattress and a blanket stuffed to a small niche behind the chimney. Place was warm and dry, and relatively spacious. She could get in and undress away from his watchful eyes. She folded her clothes neatly and placed them to a small shelf that was mounted to the side of the chimney before curling on to the mattress and closing her eyes. Hunger was gnawing at her stomach, but she wasn't going to complain. She was warm and comfortable, and most importantly she didn't have to fight anybody over her small share of the world.

* * *

The executioner had already woken up when she crawled out from her bed, knees weak from hunger, sleep in her eyes. He was sitting by the table, eating porridge, fully clothed. 

"I'm sorry… I was sure that… I'll do better tomorrow…" She whispered a hasty excuse when he turned to look at her.

"You're up early. Good. Eat, and go take care of the horse," the executioner grunted, turning his attention back to his breakfast. She could see from the window that sun hadn't risen yet.

"Don't expect your breakfast to be ready at every morning. I had to leave last night and I just got back home," the executioner murmured, and now she noticed his disheveled appearance, and large speckles of blood coloring his clothes.

"Of course… Of course. You will be probably going to bed after you have eaten, right? Just leave your clothes down here, and I'll wash them before the blood dries on them…"

"There's a cauldron outside, as well as some pails, soap and a washboard. And I'll be having stew for dinner."

She took some porridge from a pot hanging in the fireplace and ate it fast, trying to ignore how the blood cling to the executioner's hands and the sleeves of his shirt. After she had eaten she put her bowl and the spoon in to dish pail to soak up.

"I'll wash these after I have fed the horse…" She was whispering. She hated how weak her voice sounded, but quite frankly she couldn't have muster out more confident tone even if her life depended on it. The executioner didn't seem to mind.

"Be careful with that beast. It ate my last maid," the executioner said between spoonfuls of porridge, and she froze, her hand on the door handle, eyes fixed upon him. He turned to look at her, serious look on his face, but slight twinkle of mischief in his eyes.

"Not really. It didn't eat her. But as well as might have. It's as crooked as a horse can be. Be careful."

* * *

She approached the stable timidly. Opened the door and cringed when hinges squeaked. The horse huffed somewhere in the darkness. She reached inside, hand fumbling for a lantern and found it hanging next to the door. She took it and lit it outside before stepping in to the stable. 

Scent of horse and hay surrounded her. Light of the lantern revealed one pen at the back, and the black stallion standing in there, expectant look on its long face. Again it huffed, nostrils flaring when it took in her scent. She stepped closer and the stallion whinnied quietly, then turned away as if she was no importance to it.

She hang the lantern to its holder. Found a bucket from the corner filled with water and emptied it to a hinge placed on the side of the pen. The horse kept its head turned away from her.

There was a pile of hay in the corner. She retrieved several armfuls of it and dropped them in to the pen, carefully keeping her hands out of the stallion's reach. Pen looked tidy, no manure in there. She stepped back and stood by the door. Horse turned around and buried its muzzle to hinge, drinking with big, greedy gulps before starting munching the hay she had dropped for it.

She returned to the house when she was sure there was nothing else she should do for the animal. Small hut was quiet aside from soft snoring coming from the rafters. The executioner hadn't seen the need to build a room; instead he slept on a loft constructed above the fireplace. She took the clothes he had discarded on the floor and took them outside.

There was a well in front of the hut, and cauldron, pails and washboard had been placed near it, but downstream from it. She filled the cauldron with water and lit a fire under it, then filled some pails with even more water and put the executioner's clothes in those to soak up. A shirt, the vest, hooded cloak he wore and his gloves. His trousers were easy to clean up. Wet cloth slid over the leather and gathered all the small speckles of blood.

While she waited for the water to boil she washed the bowls, spoons and the pot the executioner had used to cook the porridge. Took a broom and wiped the floor. Dusted numerous shelves housing books on the walls. Peeled some potatoes and carrots for the stew. Checked the stable because she thought she heard a noise, but instead of finding the horse running rampant around she found it sleeping peacefully in the pen.

And the water wasn't boiling. It would be past dinnertime before she could start washing the clothes. And there was no way they would dry over night. They'd be still at least moist in the next morning. She had a feeling that the executioner wouldn't be very pleased if that were to happen.

She got on her knees next to the cauldron, showed more wood under it and blowed, blowed in to the flames until coals and wood were glowing white-red and her head swam.

"Don't burn yourself. I'm getting tired of replacing maids. It's hard to find decent women from that riff raff in the prison."

"Don't worry. I'll die for the lack of air sooner than in to those pitiful flames…" She muttered angrily before she realized to whom she was speaking to. She heard a low chuckle, and heavy footsteps from behind her, then the executioner's hands were on her hips, moving her aside as he kneeled next to the cauldron himself.

"Trying to escape the sword? Do I have to start to keep my eyes on you all the time?" He huffed, shoving more logs under the cauldron.

"N… No?" She uttered hesitantly. The executioner cast an annoyed glance towards her, his left eyebrow lifted in a questioning manner.

"I wasn't aware that the bastard of a husband of yours killed your sense of humor as well."

"Huh?" She squeaked, instantly alarmed and cringing away from his darkening gaze. The executioner squinted his eyes, then grabbed her chin with his calloused fingers and tilted her head sideways.

"What the hell happened to your ear?"

She knew what he was looking at. Her left earlobe was slightly disfigured. Had been ever since Carl had decided to teach her a lesson on how hot the iron should be when she was ironing his shirts. He had grabbed the heating block from the fireplace and shoved it in to the iron, then pressed the iron against her left ear and told her that it wasn't hot enough before he could smell her blood on it.

"It's nothing. I can… I can cover it, I can keep my hair so that they cover it and…"

"What the hell for? You're here to work, not to look pretty. Though I'm starting to doubt your skills in housekeeping…" The executioner muttered, letting go of her and standing up.

"It's boiling," he pointed in to the cauldron before he went back in to the hut.

She scrubbed the clothes clean from visible spots of blood with soap, cold water and the washboard. Her fingers were numb from the icy water when she splashed the heavy pile of clothes in to the cauldron, stirring them with long wooden pole made for the purpose.

* * *

He was duobting her her skills? And what that would mean if he found her so lacking with her skills that it was impossible to picture her keeping his household in order for the coming year? Would he take her back to prison? Or simply finish her off out here, without the audience, robbing her the privilege of a trial before her execution? 

Questions kept hounding her long past dinner time when she sat next to the fireplace, repairing torn shirts and watching that the clothes she had hung near the flames would only dry, not burn to a crisp. The executioner was outside, probably grooming his horse. That was pretty much the only task he wasn't going to turn over for her. The stallion was too stubborn and mean for a woman to handle, he had told her. Though his insinuation that the women were somehow lesser than men aggravated her she didn't let it show. She really didn't even want anything to do with his horse. She was afraid of it.

She finished stitching the last shirt, checked the clothes near the fireplace once more and stood up, stretching her back, wincing from the soreness of it. But it was a good pain, born from work rather than beating, and she smiled pleased. Folded the shirts she had repaired and stacked them neatly to the bottom of the stairs leading up to the loft. The executioner hadn't told her if she was allowed to go up there.

Nothing more to do than to wait for the clothes she had washed earlier to dry she started to get familiar with the hut and things placed in the cupboards and shelves. If she was going to live in here and keep the place tidy she should learn soon what belonged to where.

* * *

Her fingers lingered over long rows of books. It had been so long since she had last held one in her hands. It had been entirely too long. Carl didn't know how to read or write, and had said that those traits had to come from Satan himself, and to practice either one of them was heresy. He had burned every book she owned on their wedding night. 

She glanced over her shoulder. The executioner was still outside. She pulled carefully one dusty volume from the shelf and first just held it, enjoying the feel of the soft leather against her palms. Plain brown cover of the book gave no indication of its contents. She opened the book carefully. There was a dedication written on the front page of it with block letters. Hand that had held the pen had been heavy, tip of the pen had nearly scraped through the paper. 'For Jeannette from Logan.' She turned more pages, and gasped from delight when she noticed that the book was filled with poems. Long ones, short ones, ones that seemed to be filled with joy, others more serious, even grievous, but all of them were poems, and the book was hand written, with same kind of heavy scribbling as the dedication on the front page. Jeannette? Logan?

She heard footsteps from the front porch, and pushed the book back on the shelf hastily. She hadn't asked if she could look in to those, and from what she had understood about the executioner's initial comment of her skills in reading and writing, those weren't traits he valued in women.

When the front door opened she still stood next to the bookcase, her hand on top of the books. She snatched it back and shifted to where the clothes were, testing them with dry fingers.

"You said that you can read and write. As long as you do your chores, you're welcome to read anything you find from those shelves."

"Thank you."

"But… Should the reading get in to way of your work, I'll have you flogged. Is that clear?" The executioner asked. She swallowed and nodded.

"Good. Found anything interesting?"

"I saw just one book. It looked nice. May I read it? I repaired your shirts and it would be nice to have something to do while I wait for the clothes to dry," she explained, wiping her suddenly sweaty palms to her apron nervously.

"Go ahead," the executioner said, dragging a chair next to the fireplace and sitting on it, retrieving a small silver flask from the mantel and taking a small sip from it. From the scent wafting in the air she could tell it was rum.

* * *

She had been sitting and reading for a while, in awe of the world the poems painted in front of her, but something kept nagging at the back of her mind, diluting the pleasure she got from reading. Finally she raised her head from the pages on her lap and cleared her throat. 

"Can… can I ask you something?" She whispered. The executioner nodded, taking yet another sip from the flask.

"Who are these people? Jeannette and Logan?"

"My name is Logan. Jeannette was my wife," the executioner spoke with a raspy tone, his eyes never leaving the flickering flames in the fireplace.

"Where is she now?" She asked. The executioner took a sip from the flask, grimacing slightly before answering.

"Dead. Died in childbirth little over year ago."

"I'm sorry…"

"What for? Did you know her?" The executioner asked, turning his hazel eyes towards her.

"No. But…"

"Then you have nothing to be sorry for. Go to bed. I can wait for my clothes just fine by myself."

She lay awake long after she had gotten in to bed, listening the silent crackling of the fire, and the executioner's footsteps as he walked around in the kitchen, opening cupboards and muttering to himself silently. When a carriage stopped in front of the hut and the front door opened and closed she fell asleep.

* * *

Sound of hooves hitting on the ground woke her up much later. Sun was rising. It was time to get up. She got dressed and crawled from her tiny space above the fireplace in to the kitchen, dropping silently on the floor. She was reaching for the pot on the shelf beside the fireplace when the door opened and the executioner walked in. This time there was no blood on him. But the expression on his face was filled with disgust and loathing, towards whom she did not know. He shrugged off his cloak and hung his sword on the wall, then sat on the chair next to the cold fireplace and waited for her to light the fire and get the breakfast started. 

Porridge was bubbling in the pot, she had sliced some bread and meat to a tray and placed it on the table and was going to go and take care of his horse next.

"Wait." His command stopped her. She stood by the door, frozen to the spot. He looked angry and displeased. An expression she knew full well having witnessed it on Carl's face on several occasions. The executioner leaned forward and patted a chair next to his with his palm.

"Sit."

She swallowed the lump that had risen in to her throat and forced her legs to cooperate. Walked to where he sat and took the chair he had offered. What had she done now?

"I got called to work last night."

"Yes?" She squeaked, fiddling with her apron, noticing how smudgy it had gotten. She should wash her clothes today. If there was time to do that.

"Decided to have a beer afterwards. I run in to some friends of your late husband at the tavern." Her vision swam and she shook her head to clear it. She wasn't going to faint. She was going to sit here and listen what he had to say even if it killed her.

"Yes?"

"What the hell were you doing in that cell? What the hell are you doing in here?"

Question took her by surprise. She could only stare at the executioner, who in turn stared straight back at her, his piercing eyes burning through hers like hot pokers.

"They told me what was going on in that house. You took a life, and it's far greater sin in the eyes of the jury than those your husband committed against you, but… Christ. Why the hell didn't you tell me?"

"Tell you what?" She forced the question from her parched throat.

"No man has a right to treat his wife the way your husband treated you. It wasn't the way God intended it to be. He beat you with no reason at all! And all this time I have been thinking that you were just not a good wife…" That made her hackles rise.

"Not a good wife?" She hissed, not believing her ears.

"I was a good little wife, slaving under his roof as a maid during the day, as a whore during every night, and when it looked like something as menial as a child was going to interfere with his life, Carl got rid of it and continued as if nothing had happened! And even then I obeyed him, obeyed his every whim and word!"

"I know that now. Why didn't you say anything to anybody? Your friends? The priest? To anybody?" The executioner asked.

"And who would have believed me? Even you thought that I was just a lazy slut worth of every hit and kick I received!"

"Just remember one thing. Every word, every hit and every kick you receive under my roof you have to earn."

* * *

After his little chat with Carl' friends the executioner was more lenient towards her. Didn't mock when something went wrong, if she showed signs of tiring or if her back started to hurt he told her to get some rest, and he took upon himself the hardest tasks of carrying water and chopping wood when he had the time. For some reason his work kept him in the town for longer and longer periods, until it got to a point where he spent even his nights in there, only stopping by his house occasionally to get some fresh clothes and give her instructions of how to handle things while he was gone.

* * *

She sat by the fireplace, immersed to a book telling about faraway lands and princes and princesses, little pot of water for her tea boiling over the fire, herbs already sprinkled to a bottom of the cup, their scent wafting timidly in the air. It was raining outside. Big, fat, cold droplets of water drumming against the roof of the hut. Earlier she had sewn two new shirts and a skirt for herself from a cloth the executioner had brought her from the town when he last visited. Then she had cleaned the house, changed fresh straws to the executioner's mattress as he had told her to do few days ago and made some stew just in case he happened to stop by. 

A horse was whinnying outside. He had decided to come home after all. She prepared her tea hurriedly and replaced the water pot with the one containing the stew she had made earlier to warm it up. Then stood waiting by the fireplace. Waited. And waited. Aside from the rain she couldn't hear anything anymore. She walked to the door and pushed it open to see if there was anybody or had her mind played a trick on her, made her imagine a horse where in fact was none. The door was yanked from her fingers, and a hard hand landed on her wrist.

"So, you have been here all along. Whoring yourself to the executioner! Proud of yourself now?"

She realized who it was even before she stumbled forward and landed on the muddy ground on her hands and knees. Carl's brother, Eliac. And from the looks of it quite angry of what had happened to his brother. And completely clueless of what was going on.

She had seen Eliac only once, during their wedding. Big and strong man with blond hair, and as fast and hot-tempered as Carl. Now he was towering over her, somewhat handsome face twisted to angry grimace, hands curled to big, lethal fists on his sides and eyes gleaming from tears shed for his lost brother.

"I came back from the war, expecting to see Carl with a child, and guess what I heard at the tavern?" Eliac hissed, baring his teeth. She shook her head and tried to crawl away from him, but her feet and hands kept slipping in the muddy soil, and it was almost impossible to move.

"I heard that the slut he married, that whore from hell had killed him! And that the executioner had taken liking to her and let her run his house as her own!"

She kept backing away from Eliac until her back collided with something solid.

"You have gotten one thing in your rage right. I have gotten quite fond of her. It's a pain to train a new maid, but she has a good head on her shoulders. Let her be. If you have problem with her being here, take it out on me. I brought her here. She works for me, will be working for the coming year to earn her freedom." The executioner stood behind her. When Eliac stepped closer he simply stepped over her and shrouded her inside of his cloak. She couldn't see what was happening, but she could hear every word the two men traded.

"She's a whore and has committed the ultimate sin! She deserves to be burned at stake!" Eliac shouted.

"No. For what she did she would deserve to be decapitated. Burning is reserved for witches and the likes. I do not meddle with those issues," the executioner corrected Eliac. She couldn't stop the hysteric giggle that escaped from her lips. She pressed her face against the executioner's calf to stifle the noise, and felt the man flinch from the surprise, but he didn't move from where he stood.

"We'll see what the church has to say about it…"

"I do not work for the church. The Holy Father on his throne has no greater power over me than he has over any of us. Leave now, before you wear out my patience."

"Heresy! Blasphemy!" She could hear the executioner drawing his sword and his feet shifted slightly apart, still careful of not stepping on her.

"Leave! I have already filled my quota of souls today. I do not wish to add yours on top of that pile…"

She heard Eliac stomping away, then the executioner moved and rain started to pelt down on her. The executioner offered his hand and pulled her up.

"Get back inside before you catch a cold. I'll take care of my horse."

"Will… Will you stay home for tonight?" She stuttered, her teeth chattering so hard it was a small miracle that he could make any sense of her words.

"Yes. Go now before you drown or something. I have no use for a sick maid."

* * *

She managed all the way back in to the hut before her feet gave up and she crumpled to the floor. She wasn't crying, but she was shivering all over, and every bit of strength escaped beyond her reach. She tried to crawl closer to the fireplace to get warm, but couldn't make her body to obey her commands. She was numb. 

The door opened behind her and she let out a whimper, dead on sure that Eliac had returned. He had come back to finish what he started. Strong hands curled around her and hoisted her up. She tried to kick and scream, but nothing was happening.

"You're freezing. Take off your clothes." The executioner. Why he wanted her to take off her clothes?

When she did nothing but sat on the chair he had placed her he huffed exasperatedly.

"Take off your clothes! They're wet and cold! You get sick if you… Jesus. I'll do it." She let him jostle her, twist and turn her around and take off every stitch of clothing she had on her. Wasn't this one of the duties of a good wife? To give in when your husband wanted you to? But this wasn't her husband. Her husband was dead. It wasn't Carl's hands tearing in to her. The executioner was opening her undergarments with care, yet fast and efficiently, not lingering any longer than it was absolutely necessary, and when she sat completely naked, still shivering, he wrapped a warm quilt around her.

"Go to sleep." Yet another command she heard but was unable to comply. She could only sit and stare at the flickering flames dancing in the fireplace. Eliac. Eliac had come to home and tried to kill her. Carl's brother was back in town.

"Did you hear me? Go to sleep!" The executioner didn't sound angry. Not angry at all. He sounded more scared than anything else. She tried to open her mouth to tell him that she was going. As soon as she got everything in order she'd go in to her bed, but right now there was nothing else she could do but to sit here and breathe.

"Fine. You'll sleep with me tonight. I don't know how to get you to your own bed, can't fit through the gap between the wall and the chimney…"

* * *

"Wake up." She curled to a tighter ball in her sleep. She was aching all over and her head felt dizzy. 

"Wake up, Rogue." Rogue? Why on earth was somebody calling her rogue?

"My name is Marie…" She muttered, trying to bury her head under a pillow she found. She didn't have the slightest idea of where she was, and at the moment she didn't particularly care about it either. She was hurting, but somewhat warm and comfortable. Bed was soft, yet little prickly, she hadn't gotten the straws soft enough after all, and she used so much time to flog them and it was all for nothing…

She woke up with a huge gasp. The executioner. She was in his bed. She was naked and in his bed. And he was sitting on the edge of the bed, fully clothed, holding a cup of water out for her. She took the cup and drank greedily, dismissing the stabbing pain that sliced through her head when too cold water scalded her throat.

"Feeling any better?" The executioner asked. She rubbed her eyes tiredly. Everything looked so hazy and distorted. There was something wrong.

"You have been sick for few days. This is the first time you woke up after I brought you up here."

Up here? Oh, his bed… She started to stand up, tried to get out of the bed as fast as possible. She didn't have any idea of where he had slept while she had been hogging his bed, but as from now on she was going to give it back to him. Her feet touched the floor and she pushed up only to fall down on her hands and knees when her legs weren't strong enough to carry her weight.

"What are you doing? Stay in the bed! You're sick!" The executioner growled picking her up and placing her back on the prickly mattress that currently felt like heaven for her.

"Sleep and get better. If you're not better by the end of this week I'll have to start looking for a new maid."

Yes. He should. It was only practical. What ever was wrong with her, if it didn't go away within few days, it most likely meant death. Death for her. But she didn't want to let him down. He had taken her in even when he doubted her. He had treated her decently, had given her food and shelter, and had even defended her against Eliac.

"Don't…"

"Don't what?"

"Don't find a new maid… Not yet… I'll get through this…"

"We'll see about that. Sleep now, Marie."

* * *

At the same night she was up and running. Well, not really running, but going on with meager, meaningless tasks the executioner appointed her to keep her from getting on his nerves with her fiddling and sighing. Every once and a while she had to sit down and catch her breath, her lungs rattling alarmingly. But she wasn't going to give up. She wasn't going to die. She was going to show to him, show to the executioner that she was worthy of his trust. 

"Logan… Can I call you Logan?" She asked, leaning her head against the backrest of the chair she was sitting on, watching and listening when the executioner cleaned and sharpened his sword. He grunted his response silently under his breath.

"Excuse me?" She had to ask him to rephrase his answer.

"Wolverine. That's what people usually call me."

"But I like Logan…"

"My wife was the only person calling me Logan. Aside from her you're the only person around here who knows that name. I'd prefer if you called me Wolverine."

"Why Wolverine?" She asked. The executioner grimaced.

"That's not a story for a proper lady…"

"And would I be here… If I were a proper lady?" She asked, her eyes closing from the sheer exhaustion.

"No. Probably not. For that you are right. You would have died in that cell long before I even met you. But that's beside my point. The origin of that name isn't… It isn't a nice story. Not something to be proud of."

"Why not?" She knew she was pushing him. But for some reason he didn't seem to mind.

"It isn't, trust me. Just forget about it. You can call me what you like," he grunted, sheathing the sword and placing it on the wall.

"I like Logan… But since you don't like me to call you that…"

"You should go to sleep. You need to rest after what you got through."

"Wolverine… I'll call you Wolverine if it makes you more comfortable…" She mumbled feeling her body sliding lower in the chair, nearly falling to the floor.

"Hey! Get back in to your bed. Right now." The executioner was kneeling in front of her, his face just inches away from hers, her chin held up by his fingers. She blinked. And did the first thing that came to her mind. Leaned closer and placed a quick kiss to the tip of his nose. The executioner blinked as well, then shook his head.

"Go to your bed. You're delirious."

"Aww… Can't I even show how grateful I am for taking me in?" She whined, suddenly very ashamed but unable to stop.

"I'm not expecting that kind of gratuity. Go to sleep. You'll feel better in the morning," the executioner said standing up and moving away from her. She started to get up, lost her balance and would have probably stumbled right in to the roaring flames in the fireplace if the executioner hadn't stepped between her and the open mouth of the inferno, steadying her against his chest. And from her position she could feel the hard proof of how much her actions and words, no matter how delirious they had been, had affected to him.

His whole body was tense, front of his trousers a hard, throbbing ridge. The fire in his eyes rivaled with the one in the fireplace. Hands that held her against him were as much pulling her closer as they were trying to push her back in to the chair.

She landed on the chair, her back colliding with the backrest when the executioner finally found the willpower to let go of her shoulders. He shook his head.

"I brought you here to work. To earn your freedom. You're not going to earn that in my bed." She hung her head in shame. She had acted foolishly, and she ad no idea what had possessed her to threw herself at the executioner like she were one of the whores working at the tavern.

"Lets just forget that this ever happened. We both go to sleep, and maybe tomorrow things won't be so… Complicated," the executioner said, turning towards the stairs.

"I'm sorry…" Her whisper was barely audible, but he heard it.

"Don't be. I was expecting this to happen. They do it every time. Sooner or later, when they got bored of working for their freedom. You lasted longer than anybody else before. And I trust this won't happen again. Good night."

* * *

She managed to drag herself on top of the fireplace. Again he had suggested that she was just after her own comfort, trying to get out of her duties by giving him something else in return. Was he right? Or was she just simply so tired and delirious that she had momentarily confused him to be somebody else entirely? For a short moment she had actually imagined that he was Carl. Could she blame that confusion for her actions? And why the hell couldn't the executioner see that all she was really after was the possibility of a freedom after the year in his service was over? What exactly had Carl's friends told him about her? And what kind of stories had they spun when Eliac had returned to the town with questions of his own? Eliac… 

She crawled higher on the mattress and turned so that she could keep her eye on the front door. The executioner had promised to stay home at least this night, but could she trust him? What if he got called away and Eliac came back?

* * *

Next time she woke up she felt fairly better. No more swooning or sudden bouts of weakness. Just incredible feeling of hunger and thirst. The front door was wide open, and she could see the executioner outside. He had tied his horse next to the well and was saddling it. Sun was high on the sky, indicating that it was already well past noon. She got hurriedly dressed and climbed down, stumbling slightly to the hem of her skirt. 

"Take your coat. You're coming with me," the executioner shouted from the outside. She grabbed her cloak, red as her shirt and skirt and walked to where he stood beside his horse.

"Now that Eliac is back, we're going to start doing things little differently. You'll stay with me until I get things settled with him. I don't want to come back home only to find you gutted from the front porch. Like I said to Eliac, I'm getting rather tired of replacing maids."

Stay with him? She wasn't all that sure if it was a good idea. She wasn't all that sure that she could handle the gory aspects of his occupation. But she really didn't have a choice. She was to do as he told her to do, at all times, if she wanted to gain her freedom.

"I can't let you wander around in town. There's an isolation cell near my chambers." A cell. He was going to lock her up again. Disappointment flickered over her features.

"I'll lock the door. It's for your own safety. That way Eliac can't get to you. And it's only when I'm working. I'll see that the guards bring you something to eat. Take a book with you. Or something to sew. Anything."

Well, at least he wasn't expecting her to tag along when he started working. Of course she had seen executions before, they were pretty common happenings. But she balked at the idea of standing there when the executioner interrogated the prisoners. She had been lucky. She hadn't gotten under his tools. Few of the women she had shared her cell had gone through the grinder several times, and every time they were returned to the cell more and more appendages were missing, bones were broken and their features had often times mangled beyond recognition.

* * *

She had taken a book with her since she had finished her sewing several days ago. She had been relieved that she got shoved in to a cell instead of having to endure the stench and sights of the interrogation chamber that was adjacent to the Executioner's office. She hadn't counted on that she could hear everything that went on in that dim hole of hell. 

She could hear every whisper. Every scream. Every ragged plea of mercy. And the executioner talking with calm voice, explaining the details of every procedure to his victims before he started cutting in to their flesh. It was torture like no else. To hear him explaining to a woman how he would first cut off her nipples to make her bleed and wait for a while before he got on with something that would really hurt. Or to hear how he shattered joints of the men with creative use of rope and levers. And hear the voice of the interrogator when he kept asking the same questions from the prisoners over and over again, see him through the bars of her cell when he had to step out for some fresh air every once and a while to tamp down the nausea.

* * *

It was late night, and she imagined that the day would be over. That the executioner would come and take her home. Instead she watched in horror when a child, a boy that couldn't be older than seven years was guided past her cell in to the interrogation chamber. She held her breath, waiting for the screaming to start. Nothing happened. Silence was almost deafening, until the heavy door burst open, and the interrogator marched out, the executioner close on his heels. Both men looked angry, the executioner downright murderous. They stormed down the hall, and stopped when they obviously imagined that there was nobody close enough to hear them. 

"I won't do it." The executioner.

"Then we'll just have to find somebody who will…" The interrogator hissed. She tried to squirm her head through the bars of her cell to get a better view, but it was impossible. She had to rely to her ears to follow their conversation.

"Good luck finding somebody. Find a person sick enough to do it, and you have found a person who belongs in to my hands rather than being out there on his own devices…"

"But the bishop…"

"And since when have we bowed in front of him? I don't care if the boy stole from the Christ himself! He's just a child!"

"Watch your words, Wolverine. I'd hate to see you hanging from those ropes just because somebody misunderstood your meaning…"

"God damn you… Fine. I'll do it. But you're going to wait outside."

"But the bishop…"

"The boy already confessed! What more do you expect to get out from him?"

"You have a point. But I'll be waiting outside…"

She scooted hastily against the far wall of her cell when men walked past the door. They didn't seem to notice her. She crept slowly closer when she heard the door opening and closing. She could see the interrogator standing in front of the door of the interrogation chamber. Shrill screams coming from behind that door filled the air suddenly. Even the interrogator covered his ears. Then those screams stopped suddenly and turned to a gurgling sound. Then even that stopped, and there was nothing. Just a long moment of silence. Then the door opened and the executioner showed the limp body of the boy to interrogator's arms. Small body was covered in blood and other bodily fluids, limbs hanging in awkward angles, and there were several cuts marring the skin of the torso.

"Happy?" The executioner asked.

"It didn't take long enough," the interrogator said, inspecting the injuries the body had sustained.

"Bring me healthy adults and I can make them scream forever."

"What is this? Did you slit his throat?"

"No. Knife must have slipped. Hmph… I really should be more careful with those…"

She tried not to flinch when the executioner opened her cell door and reached for her hand. If he noticed her reluctance to touch him, he didn't comment on it, just grabbed her wrist and pulled her after him. They walked out from the prison in silence. He led her through the quiet streets to the stable where he had left his horse earlier that day. Saddled the stallion, hopped on to the saddle and helped her behind him.

* * *

They rode slowly. She got the impression that he let the horse decide the pace and the direction. It had taken this journey several times before, and knew exactly where to go, which route to choose in order to reach the homestable. 

"It's late, but I could make you something to eat…" She proposed when he helped her down from the horse.

"I'm not hungry."

"I'll make something anyway. I slept almost the whole day, and I'm not tired."

"I'm not hungry. If you need something to do, clean the stable."

"But you haven't eaten anything and…"

"I'm not hungry! I just killed a six year old boy because he stole a loaf of bread from bishop's carriage, so forgive me if I don't have the stomach to eat anything right now!" The executioner shouted, shoved her towards the hut and grabbed the reigns of his horse, turning towards the stable.

"Why?" She asked. He stopped.

"Why did you do it? I heard you arguing with the interrogator. Why did you do it if it was wrong?"

"I do not decide what's wrong and what's right. It's not my place. I try not to meddle with things that are not my concern. I do my work because it keeps me fed. And it's something I'm good at."

* * *

After that day he stopped taking her with him in the prison. He booked a room from the tavern instead, locking her in there and taking the key with him when he went in to his business. It was only a small comfort after what she had witnessed. And after every day he returned to pick her up more and more wound up. 

He didn't lay a hand on her, but acted towards her downright mean, scalding her over every little thing he thought was wrong, drilling her mercilessly and mocking when she couldn't get a thing done. It was impossible to please him. It was as if he was purposefully making her fail every little task she tried to comply, beginning from breakfasts which he claimed she wasn't making fast enough to cleaning the stable from which she was sloppy and careless at.

* * *

"Look at this! How many times I have to tell you? Don't put my clothes in to the cauldron if there's blood on them! Clean it off first! People already know what I do for a living, I don't need to advertise it!" Small speckle of blood she had missed on the cuff of his sleeve. 

"Can you even cook water without burning it?" Porridge gone bad because he told her to get some logs from the woodshed while it boiled.

"You're impossible! There's dust and dirt everywhere! No wonder your husband was less than pleased!" After he had stomped around in the hut with muddy shoes, looking for something that should have been there, but what she had obviously misplaced.

"Are you trying to get yourself killed? Just say the word and I'll be happy to help you out, leave my horse alone!" When the beast he called his horse had literally taken a bite out of her and she tried to stem the blood flow from the wound it had made to her arm.

"Get your lazy ass off from the bed and do something!" That comment finally made her snap. She had tried to be a good little maid, bending over backwards to get everything he wanted done. All she had gotten out of it were insults and shouting. Something he had promised she'd have to earn. And in her opinion she would have earned a reward for keeping her temper in check every time he opened his mouth and a new string of curses and insults poured out.

She stepped down from her bed, smoothing the crinkles from her apron. She had taken the habit of sleeping fully clothed in case he decided he needed her help with this or that in the middle of the night. She had just gotten in to bed, after spending the afternoon and the evening on her knees on the floor, scrubbing it until her knuckles bled and the wide floorboards were squeaky-clean. She had had to do it today because tomorrow she'd spend locked up on the second floor of the tavern.

"What do you want me to do?" She asked. The executioner stood leaning his side against the fireplace, and looked genuinely surprised by her question.

"I'm sure there are several things for you to do."

"If that's the case, from where should I start?"

"The stable…"

"I cleaned it this morning while you were still sleeping. I fed the horse, gave it water, and I checked it before I went to bed and everything was okay."

"The kitchen…"

"Is fine. I washed the floor, every cup, kettle, pot and bowl is clean, there's no dust anywhere, and books are in alphabetical order."

"My clothes, then?"

"Clean and repaired. I ironed your shirts and they're in your closet, as well as your pants."

"What about…"

"No. The only thing I haven't done yet is to sharpen your sword, and that's the one thing I'm not touching, ever! Stop bullying me! I can't keep up with this! If you hate me that much, why the hell won't you throw me back to jail? At least in there I'd have to fight only for myself and I wouldn't have to be afraid that the guards start throwing their dirty clothes for me to wash and then complain how inadequate I am!"

"You want back in there? I can take you there if you miss that hellhole that bad."

"Oh, please. Do take me back. Lock me up, chop me up and get yourself a better maid!"

Before she could continue the executioner stormed out, door of the cabin slamming open and closed, rattling on its hinges. She was still steaming from anger. She was still tired. Her back was still hurting from when he stayed on her knees on the floor, trying to scrub it clean. And she still wasn't through with him. She went after him, throwing the door, nearly matching his strength in doing so, but she wasn't moving fast enough. The door swung shut when she was still standing too close of it, and it hit her knee, making her scream.

The executioner was standing in front of the hut, his back turned, but when she screamed he whirled around. Her knee was throbbing hotly from the impact, and hurting so bad that she felt like screaming some more, but she kept her mouth shut and stood her back straight.

"I'm not done yet…" She hissed. The executioner looked at her expectantly.

"I have done everything you have ever asked. Some things I have failed simply because you have hurried me to do something else when I weren't finished with the previous task. At first I thought you were a good man. Now I see that you're no better than Carl. Take me back to prison, but make sure that somebody else than you comes for me when it's my time to die. I do not wish your face to be the last thing I see on this earth."

The expectant look on his face turned to something else. He cleared his throat and shuffled his feet, trying to avoid her gaze. Then he seemed to get a hold from himself, and he turned his gaze towards her, locking his eyes together with hers.

"I have hurt you. For that I am sorry. But if you really think I could take you back there… I'm not that big of a bastard. I promised you a year. That year you shall have."

"You're sorry? You're sorry? You tell me that you're going to drag me through hell, and you're sorry!"

"There are no excuses to how I have treated you recently. But I promise that I try to behave from now on. No more of this nonsense of going back to prison. Is that clear?"

* * *

He really did try ever since. She could tell from his exasperated sighs and dark looks he kept casting to her direction that he was really struggling to keep his mouth shut. And there were periods when he actually seemed pleased at her work, up to a point when he thanked her at the end of the day and praised her honesty and diligence.

* * *

She couldn't tell if this was one of those nights, or would she get torn again for something she hadn't done properly according to him. They were sitting in front of the fireplace. Snow was falling outside, big ragged flakes turning the scenery behind the window white and sparkly. The executioner was sipping rum and smoking tobacco he had bough earlier that day from a traveling salesman. She was reading. Or at least pretending to read. 

"What do you plan to do when the year is over?" The executioner asked from her suddenly. She closed the book.

"I don't plan anything. I have no way of knowing if I'll be alive when this is all over." The executioner harrumphed and again they sat in silence for a moment.

"Well… Pretend that this has been your last day at work. And that I have told you that tomorrow I'll give you your wages and you're free to go. What would you do tomorrow?" He asked.

"I… I don't know. I'd rather not to think about it at all." She didn't want to start dreaming about possible future when the sword hung over her neck.

"But you have to have something. I can't just throw you out on your own. You'd end up back in prison in less than a week. Don't you have anybody? Family? Friends? There has to be somebody willing to take you in."

She knew he was right. The amount of money she would receive along her freedom wouldn't be big. Just enough to secure her for few days, give her time to find relatives or friends that were willing to take her under their roof until she got back on her feet.

"There's nobody. My parents died soon after I married. Plague. And Carl drove off my friends."

"Hmph. Some friends you had… You have five months left to figure out what you're going to do."

"And why would I figure out anything if I'm going to end up executed anyway?" She asked slightly angry.

"You haven't yet given me a reason to lop off your head. If you don't suddenly start misbehaving and slacking around I'll be happy to set you free after the year is over."

"That's… That's cruel…"

"No. It's the truth. God knows I'm not the easiest or the most pleasant person to work with. You have done well. Even when I'm out of line. What I have been for the most part of your stay in here."

"But…"

"You know… Remember that night few months ago? We fought and you finally told me what you thought about things. What you thought about the way I was handling things. I was waiting for you out there. I was waiting for you to come through that door with and poker or a knife in your hand. I wasn't expecting that scream, and I certainly wasn't expecting you to put me back on to my place. But that you did. Made me see things from your point of view."

"I remember that. And my knee remembers that as well."

"Still sore?"

"A little. But why? Why were you acting like that? Why do you still act like that, even today?" She asked, hoping she could push her luck a bit further. If there really was something wrong, if there was something she could do to make him stop turning to a monster…

"There are no good reasons for my behavior. At least not acceptable ones. I guess I have been just so tired and angry lately… I know I shouldn't take it out on you."

"Why? What's making you so angry?"

"Nothing. It's not a suitable topic to discuss with a lady."

"Considering what I saw that one time when you took me with you when you went to work…"

"Fine. It's about that night. And many nights after that. I don't… I don't especially like my work, but it's something that I'm good at. Up until now it has been easy to leave everything in the prison when I come home, but lately… There have been too many people in my chambers that don't belong there. Children, women and men whose only crime has been to disagree with the church. It's blasphemy and heresy and they deserve to burn in hell for their sins, but they do not deserve to be sent to my hands. It's not right. And I shouldn't even be thinking about right and wrong, because if I start doing that I would have to start looking back and evaluate every prisoner that has gone through that chamber once again, and I have a feeling that I wouldn't be liking the end result of that evaluation that much."

"Why do you do it if you don't like it?" She pressed on more boldly.

"Why do I do it?"

"Yes. Why don't you just quit and start doing something else?"

She didn't get the answer she was expecting. The executioner just stared at her in disbelief, then started to laugh. It was a cold and bitter sound.

"You don't know! You really don't know! Oh, Jesus… Had you been around when I asked this work…"

"I don't know what?" She asked, slightly put back by his glee over her ignorance.

"I'm the darkest sinner. The worst criminal of them all. As long as I keep my job I keep my head. I can't just walk to my superiors and tell them that I have found something else. As soon as I do that they'll lock me up and execute without a trial for the sins and murders I have committed under their command. Once you become an executioner, that title follows you to your grave."

"Oh…"

"But don't bother your pretty little head with that. Just… Try to stay out of my way when it starts to look like I have gotten enough. We should be just fine. It's only few months and…"

He stopped talking and went completely rigid when she leaned over the small gap separating their chairs and hugged him.

"Thank you. Thank you for telling me all that," she whispered, vastly relieved. All this time she had been thinking that it somehow was her fault after all. The small nagging voice at the back of her head whispering constantly that she should try harder because she was just a lazy slut. The executioner's apology and confession had silenced those whispers, and for the first time in weeks she could breathe properly.

"Don't mention it. An I didn't tell those things so that you could start pitying me," he grunted, trying to untangle her hands from around his shoulders. She refused to let go, and his struggles were half hearted at best.

"Come here," the executioner huffed, grabbing her and lifting her on to his lap, tucking the crown of her head under his jaw and capturing her to the cage of his muscled arms.

"I shouldn't be doing this. I should take you back there and ask them to call another executioner to take care of your case. But it has been so long since I have touched anybody like this. Not hurting, just holding. And I'm so goddamned tired that it isn't funny anymore. I don't know how I can go back there and keep doing what I do anymore…"

"Then don't go. Just pack your things and leave."

"I can't do that. You'd end up back in prison."

"Not if I came with you."

"No. We're not going to discuss about this anymore. And you'd better go to sleep before I start something we'll both regret in the morning."

"But…"

"You're a convict, and I'm the man that's supposed to keep an eye on you and possibly wield the sword that cuts your neck. That's all there is. That's all there should be. Go to sleep, Marie."

"No."

"No?"

The executioner was trembling. He looked absolutely lost, at loss of what to say or do. He clearly hadn't expected her to refuse his command. He had pushed her off from his lap, but she forced her way back there and curled against his chest.

"What are you doing?" The executioner squeaked.

"I'm trying to make you see that there could be more. There could be more if you'd just let it…"

"Stop that or I'll take you back to prison first thing in the morning." He sounded angry, but when she turned to look at him there was only fear in his eyes. She swallowed and licked her dry lips. She wasn't all that sure that this was a good idea. That this was something she should do. But she braced herself and locked her eyes in to his.

"Could you really do that? Take me back there and cut off my head when the time comes?"

* * *

It took her a while to realize what was happening. Probably because nothing in her previous life had prepared her for this, but most likely because it happened so suddenly. The executioner was crushing her against him, and kissing her. Hard lips devouring hers, tongue exploring the cavern of her mouth, his large hands roaming over her body that had all of a sudden gone lax and powerless under his ministrations. 

She could only moan softly and clutch him closer when he let go of her lips and trailed along her jaw and neck with his lips and tongue, sucking, licking and nibbling her pulse point. Clear evidence of his arousal was throbbing against her buttocks, hard ridge of his cock straining the front of his trousers.

With Carl it had been about dominance and violence. He had liked to smack her around, kick her and tug her hair, then take her by force. This… This gentleness was new to her, the way the executioner seemed to observe her reactions and find a way to please her instead of rushing for his own gratification.

It felt so good. His strong muscles trembling under her palms, his hot mouth seeking hers, his hands caressing her gently but firmly, kneading her breasts and smoothing over her sides and hips. It felt too good.

Carl had never liked when what he referred as her sin happened. It would happen with him rarely, the burning need at the pit of her stomach which made her core soft and moist. Carl had said that it was wrong, disgusting. That she was making a mess with her slimy excretions.

When the executioner's hand disappeared under the hem of her skirt and his fingers crept higher she clamped her thighs together.

"I won't hurt you… Let me…" He whispered, lust and longing burning in his eyes. He pried her thighs apart gently and cupped her, letting his middle finger delve in to her crevice. She could hear the slick sound it made and blushed, turning her gaze away from him, expecting him to throw her on the floor and start ranting what a filthy slut she was.

Instead of rejecting her he started stroking her from down there, finding all those spots Carl had firmly avoided and told her not to touch those as well. She nearly cried out loud when she felt his finger enter her, and instead of pain it brought forth indescribable pleasure.

She moved her hips shyly, trying to find something, anything, but tried to keep back. Women were not supposed to seek pleasure on moments like these. She whimpered when he stopped moving his hand. She could feel his finger in her hot and slick core, but the friction was gone.

The executioner cupped her cheek and turned her face to face with him.

"Do what feels good to you. Move, make a noise, anything. I want to feel and see that you're alive."

"But…"

"Hush… Just enjoy. And tell me if I'm doing something wrong."

"But, oh…"

She felt another finger sliding in and grasped his shoulders. She knew that her nails would leave a mark on his skin, but it was impossible to let go. It was impossible to breathe. It was impossible to stay still when those fingers started pumping back and forth, spreading slickness and rubbing from all the right places. She was falling, falling apart and screaming.

When she regained her bearings and opened her eyes she met the executioner's smiling face. His fingers left her still throbbing core and he brought them to his lips, licking and sucking them clean.

"You taste so good…"

She felt good. Every inch of her body still tingling warmly, his hands holding her. Strong thighs under her. Something hard lodged between her hip and his pelvis. Suddenly it hit her. This had gone all wrong. He had given her something she didn't even know that it existed, and had gotten nothing in return.

"Can I… Would you come in to my bed?" Man asked from her, smile gone from his face, replaced by need and insecurity.

"You don't have to if you don't want to, but…" She placed a finger over his lips, silencing him.

"Yes."

He carried her up to the loft and placed her on the mattress carefully, then just stood and stared at her.

"God knows I shouldn't be doing this, but I can't pretend any longer… I have wanted you for so long…" He whispered, then crawled on top of her, claiming her lips to a searing kiss. He started to undress her, opening the laces of her shirt and baring her aching breasts and pebbled nipples. Her back arched involuntarily when his hot mouth locked around one nipple while his fingers worried the other, kneading and pinching just hard enough to ignite the need she had felt earlier.

This wasn't right, wasn't right. She wanted to feel his skin under her palms, wanted to give back at least some of the pleasure with what he was tormenting her. She tried to tug off his shirt and let out a frustrated mewl when it wouldn't budge.

"Wait, wait… Let me help you with that…" The executioner murmured and unbuttoned the offending garment, letting it fall off, and finally granting her hands access to him. He was kneeling between her thighs, his upper body braced above her. She let her hands glide over his hard muscles, in awe of the contrast between his soft skin and coarse hair that grew on his chest and left a narrow trail over his stomach, disappearing under the waistband of his trousers.

Her nails scraped accidentally over his flat nipples and he sucked in a surprised gasp, closing his eyes. She hadn't even known something could feel so good as it had felt when he had been suckling her breasts, and she wanted to see if it would feel as good for him. She sat up and bent her head, licking one nipple experimentally. He shivered and grasped her hair, urging her to continue, sinking slowly on his back and pulling her on top of him.

She explored his chest with her mouth and fingers, salty taste of his skin making her head swam. She found the spots from where he was ticklish. Found the spots that made him shiver and moan, and buck his hips against her. Found old scars crisscrossing his torso, thin white lines, some wider and jagged from the edges. Crawled lower in an attempt to taste all of him until the waistband of his trousers stopped her progress.

"Come here… Come up here…" He pulled her to his side, out of breath, and buried his face between her breasts. She used that move to her advantage and untied the leather strap that kept his hair tied back.

"Can I take these off?" The executioner asked, his trembling hands going to the laces of his trousers. She narrowed her eyes. Why on earth was he asking? She was more than willing to continue, and wasn't it after all his right?

"Marie… Can I take these off?" There was a pleading tone in his voice now.

"Yes…" Her own hands joined to his hastily. They couldn't get his trousers off fast enough. Laces got tangled together in to tight knots that wouldn't open.

"Take off your skirt, I'll take care of this…"

He stood up and walked to the small window. Moon hung on the sky, heavy orb of silver light. That light reflected from the snow outside, and outlined his frame for her to see. He was fiddling with the laces, and when he couldn't get them open he simply tore them apart, shrugging off his trousers.

She threw off her skirt, not caring where it landed, her eyes locked to him when he walked back to her slowly. Sharp pang of fear sliced through her from the sight of him.

Carl had been a big man. Much bigger than what was comfortable for her. And he had enjoyed the pain he could bestow upon her, had lived for those moments when he could shove his rod in to her and make her bleed. The executioner was even bigger than Carl. Thick, veiny cock leaking clear liquid, balls hanging heavy and full as he stood beside the mattress, devouring her with his eyes.

He must have seen the fearful look that flashed in her eyes because he sat on the mattress, instead of rushing between her bent knees. Stroked her belly gently.

"I won't hurt you…" He whispered, leaning to kiss her.

"But… It always hurts…" She uttered when he released her lips.

"I promise it won't hurt. Let me show you."

She wanted to clamp her thighs shut when he crawled on top of her, but his hips kept them apart. His mouth locked around her rosy nipple, his tongue making her momentarily forgot her fear, and suddenly she could feel him sliding inside of her. Slowly, inch by inch until their pelvises rested together and she could feel him throbbing hotly inside of her. And instead of pain she cried out from pleasure.

* * *

She lay on top of his back, marveling how warm he felt, how solid and secure he was. She could tell from his slowing breathing that he was falling asleep. 

"What are these?" She asked. Now that she could think clearly the scars covering his skin woke her curiosity. Everybody had scars. Even Carl had had few of them, but never had she seen so impressive collection as the executioner carried on his skin.

"Nothing…"

"You were hurt. Badly." She traced one especially wide from his shoulderblade down to his lower back.

"It was long time ago. Nothing worth mentioning…"

"I still want to know what happened. Could you tell me?"

The executioner huffed exasperatedly and rolled on his back, revealing even more scars on his front side.

"I was just a kid. A convict like you. They had found me wandering around in forest with… They found me from the forest. Put me in to a cell. The executioner was looking for an apprentice. He had a heavy hand and a bad temper. I guess I wasn't helping matters. Talking back, tried to run away several times. And when I got older started going after his daughter, Jeannette… I guess I deserved everything he threw at me."

"Why you were in the forest? Why did they lock you up?" She asked puzzled. If children got lost in the forest, they didn't get locked up when they were found. At least not locked up in prison.

"I don't know why I was there. I don't know who my parents were or why didn't they come looking for me. I lived out there several years. Stole food from farmers. Hunted with… Hunted. They didn't have any other place to put me than the prison. Nobody wanted to take in an extra mouth."

She wanted to keep asking more. She wanted to know everything there was to know about him. The look he flashed at her when she opened her mouth made her stay silent. He wasn't in the mood. There was something he wasn't willing to share with her. Not now. Maybe not ever.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to pry. I just…"

"You're curious. I like that in women. But things you want to know… They happened a long time ago and they really don't matter anymore."

She was sure that her curiosity would some day cost her more than she was willing or able to pay, but the mystery that was him teased her.

"They matter to me. Why can't you tell me?"

The executioner got off from the bed and yanked his trousers on.

"Do you want to know where I got my name? The name they're calling me?" He asked. There was anger in the tone of his voice. There was fear in his eyes.

"Yes."

"When they found me, I was nothing but an animal. I was living with a wolverine. Feeding with it from carcasses, slaughtering cattle alongside it, it took them three years to make me understand why I couldn't run around naked and steal bones from dogs!"

She didn't know what to say. She didn't know what to do. He snorted at the blank look on her face.

"Was that what you needed to know? That you shared a bed with an animal? Feeling better now? Or do you want more details? How it felt to delve in to still warm stomach of a cow when the weather was so freezing that I nearly lost my toes? How I still miss that wolverine? She was my mother and they hunted her down and skinned her alive! Hide is still hanging above the bar in the tavern, they like to keep it there to remind me what will happen to filthy animals who threaten their cattle!"

He stood shaking; his face only inches from hers and bared his teeth.

"Heard enough? Want to go back to the prison right now, or have you got the nerve to wait until tomorrow morning?" She reached with her hand and cupped his cheek.

"I want to stay with you. Please, don't take me back there…"

He let out a strangled gasp and hauled her against him, crushing her lithe body against his chest and burying his face to the side of her neck. She could feel his heart hammering in his chest. He wasn't even breathing, just held her in a death grip.

"You were right, it doesn't matter, but I'm happy that you told me what happened," she whispered, combing her fingers through his tousled hair.

"You don't have to stay with me just because you don't want to go back to prison. I could… I could let you go… Tell everybody that you tried to run and I had to kill you, or…" He spoke with hoarse voice, lowering her back to the bed and backing away from her.

"But I want to stay with you. You have been good to me; I don't want to go away… Please, don't make me leave…"

* * *

"As long as you're a convict, I can't marry you. And we can't let the people know about us." She was sitting in front of the fireplace. The executioner was pacing back and forth in front of her, stopping to stare at her with a stupefied grin on his face. 

"We don't have to tell them," she hurried to reassure him.

"We don't have to tell them ever." That stopped him and he turned to look at her, dark look on his face.

"Ever? Are you ashamed of me?" He asked.

"No! But I thought you were worried of what they would think about us and…"

"Jesus, woman!" He huffed, pulling her up from the chair, locking his arms around her and spinning around.

"I want them to know! I want to tell everybody of what treasure I found! But I can't do that before you're a free woman!"

He stumbled and lost his balance, crashing against the door of the hut. It flew open and they fell outside on to the soft, fresh snow. She squeaked when her knees touched the cold surface and curled on top of the executioner like a cat, trying to avoid touching the snow with her bare skin. And he was laughing. Full-hearted sound that came from somewhere deep inside of him and echoed all around them. He didn't seem to mind the icy slush the snow had turned under him.

"I want everybody to know how much I love you. I want to show them what a good woman you are. It's eating me alive that I have to wait five long months before I can do that," He said with a serious tone, pulling her closer and kissing her.

* * *

Knowing that in five months her life would change drastically made it easier to suffer the rest of her sentence. Though one could hardly call it suffering. Sure, there were days she had to spend locked up in to a tiny room in the tavern when the executioner had his duties to take care of. Sure, her own duties around the hut they shared hadn't turned any easier, but they didn't feel as laborious as they had felt before. The executioner was helping her when he had the time, and most importantly she wasn't taking care of things because she had to. She was doing it for herself as much as she was doing it for him. And nights she spent in the executioner's bed more than repaid everything she did during days. All in all, life was good, until one day changed it all.

* * *

That night she had spent alone. They had sent for the executioner late at the previous evening. She had woken up cold, long ago gotten used to sleeping next to hot furnace of his body. And she had been slightly worried. He had told her that he would be back before sunrise. Sun had risen and there was no sign of him. 

She had shaken off uneasy feelings, made herself some breakfast and gotten dressed. It was late fall, weather was warming, but mornings were still cold, and for some reason she had been feeling dizzy and tired lately. She had carried logs to the fireplace and filled the bucket she kept in the kitchen with water from the well. She had cleaned the stable though the executioner had told her that he could do it later. She had repaired his shirt that had gotten torn few days ago when his horse had decided to taste if his blood would have been as tasty as hers had been. And then there had been nothing to do except to wait that he returned back home.

Sun crept higher on the sky, reaching soon the peak of its arc and started descending. And still there had been no sign of him. She had started the dinner, dicing few potatoes and some carrots in to a pot, throwing some dried meat in there as well. She had been hanging the pot above the glowing coals in the fireplace when the door had swung open.

* * *

"Pack us some clothes and something to eat!" She could only stare at the executioner. He stood in the doorway, clothes torn and bloodied, strands of hair escaped from their prison and whipping around his face in the wind, breathing labored and eyes darting between her and the path leading to town on his right. He was holding something, a small bundle of cloth, tightly against his chest. 

"Didn't you hear me? Pack us some clothes and something to eat! We don't have much time before… Move, woman!"

She shook herself out of the stupor, grabbed saddlebags that hung on the wall next to the door and started throwing inside of them everything she could reach. Small pile of dirty clothes, some blankets, chunk of dried meat, some bread and cheese. All the while he stood on the doorway, glancing behind his back every now and then, radiating feverish feeling of danger that made her insides constrict.

Bundle on his arms moved and let out a small moan. She stopped dead on her tracks. She knew that sound. A baby. He was holding a baby.

"She needs milk."

"We can get it later, there's no time… For the love of God, they're coming after us and if you don't start moving they'll catch us!"

His horse was waiting outside, obviously nervous and not liking a bit the way its master was treating it right now. It whinnied and backed off when the executioner approached it. He huffed and grabbed the reigns, yanking from them for the good measure, bringing the horse's head in front of his face.

"Listen, you big, dumb bastard… You'll take these two and take good care of them. Is that understood?" She heard him growl to the animal. He was going to send her away with the baby? On that beast?

"I'll stay back and hide our tracks. Don't worry, I'll catch you as soon as I'm sure that they're not following us," the executioner said helping her on the saddle and pushing the baby on her arms.

"But…"

"I'll explain everything to you. Later."

"But Wolverine…"

"Oh, Christ… Just call me Logan. Lean over here a bit, darling…" he murmured, cupping her face between his large palms and placing a soft kiss to her lips. Then he slapped the horse sending them away, galloping frantically towards the forest behind the hut.

* * *

Rest of the day she spent learning how to handle the stallion, that was surprisingly obedient towards her, even went as far as to stop when she started to fall from the saddle. It was as if the animal had understood what the executioner had told it earlier. 

For her relief the baby was sleeping. She found it strange that the small girl could sleep through all this, but it was easier to handle things when she wasn't craving her attention. She couldn't help wondering her origins. Or what had happened.

Several hours later she came to a small clearing in the forest. There was a herd of sheep sleeping on the soft grass already. Some of them seemed to be with lambs. Baby was still sleeping. That couldn't be right. There had to be something wrong. She stopped the horse and slid carefully down from the saddle, tying the reigns to a tree trunk to prevent the animal escaping. It started grazing, seemingly satisfied from the turn the events had taken.

She opened the bundle with shaking hands. Baby wasn't newborn. She was few months old, with chubby limbs and round belly. There was nothing wrong with her, yet she didn't wake up when she tickled her under her throat.

"She's not going to wake up before morning." Words came from the darkness surrounding her and she nearly screamed before she realized who had spoken. The executioner. He leaned against the tree trunk, breathing heavily, his gaze fixed to the sleeping baby.

"I gave her something to keep her quiet. Good thinking with the sheep… She'll be hungry when she wakes up…" He was sliding down slowly until he sat leaning his back against the tree, his feet sprawled, clutching his side.

"Your horse found them. Had nothing to do with my thinking," she said, covering the baby and crawling to him. He chuckled weakly.

"He's always been the smart one… Kept me on my toes…"

He was pale. There was blood trickling between his fingers and coloring his shirt. His skin felt cold and clammy under her fingers when she swept away strands of hair that sweat had glued to his forehead.

"I was already leaving when they brought her in… Told me she was possessed… That her mother had been a witch… Wanted me to purge the devil out from her…"

"Don't. Don't try to speak…" She tried to hold back her tears when she pried his hand off and saw the gaping wound on his side. Few bones had been shattered and she could literally see inside of him.

"Told them to leave it to me… The priest wanted to stay and watch… He couldn't… Said he was afraid of the blood…"

"You can tell it to me later…" She tried to cover the wound with her bunched up apron, tried to stop the blood from flowing.

"At first I was just going to kill her… Make it fast, like that boy, just slit her throat, then bash the body… To make it look real…"

"Please…"

"Couldn't do it… I waited until they left, then took her and ran…"

"Logan, stop talking."

"Jeannette? Is that you?" He squinted confused, reaching with his hand, grasping a strand of hair that had escaped from her braid.

"Yes. It's me, Logan. Stop talking, we have to make you better…"

"Jeannette… I'm so sorry… I didn't mean to do it…"

"Logan, stop talking!"

"No… Listen… I didn't mean to forget you… I wasn't going to… I fell in love… I didn't mean to hurt you…"

He was rambling. Delirious from blood loss and fever that had broken out and was burning him. She managed to tie the wound, and it looked like he was no longer bleeding. But he was still trashing and pleading apologies from a dead woman.

"She's a good woman… You would have liked her…"

"Yes, I'm sure I would have." She wasn't sure if it was a good idea to keep answering, but if she stayed silent he started screaming until she answered.

"I'm not going to forget you… But I… I hope that… You let me love her…"

He fell to a restless dream, still crying and ranting in his sleep. She curled around the sleeping baby and tried to close her eyes and ears. She needed to rest. The executioner and the baby would both need her in the morning.

* * *

Baby woke her with a shrill scream of hunger. Sun had barely risen, and the sheep were still sleeping. She picked up the baby and walked to them, choosing a sheep, which was resting with a lamb. Pushed the lamb aside and held the baby so that she could suckle milk from the sheep. Animal didn't either notice that it wasn't the lamb, or didn't care, but let the baby fill her belly. 

"Kill the lamb… Take the sheep with you… More milk for the baby that way…" The executioner's thick voice reached her when she stood up, holding the baby up against her shoulder.

"I'll do that. But we can't leave yet. I have to check your wound."

"Don't bother… Already did it… I'm not coming with you," he grunted, shifting on to a better position and gasping, nearly toppling over.

She lowered the baby on a soft patch of moss and hurried to his side. The apron she had used to tie his wound was sticky and heavy from his blood. When she moved to remove it the executioner grasped her wrist.

"Don't… Just take the baby and leave… I need the horse, but if you take the sheep and saddlebags you should be just fine until you reach the next town…"

"Logan…"

"Smell that?" The executioner asked. She had tried to block out the stench wafting from his wound, but when he pointed it out it was impossible to ignore.

"I'm already dead… I'll take the horse… Leave a good track for them to follow and ride as far as I can…"

"No."

"Yes, Marie."

"But Logan…"

"Not a good time to argue… Do as I tell you, wife… Take the baby and go!"

* * *

"I love you." She stood clutching the baby against her left shoulder, saddlebags thrown over her right, holding the leash of the sheep in a tight grip of her right hand. 

"And I love you, little wife… Now get the hell away from here, I have some things to take care of…" The executioner rasped. Air was rattling in his lungs. He nearly cried out and forced himself upright, reaching for the reigns of his stallion. Animal huffed and shook its mane, nostrils flaring and eyes rolling from the stench of death wafting from him, but it stood still when he dragged himself on the saddle.

She turned away and started walking. She couldn't watch.

She didn't know how long, or how far she walked. All she knew was that she had stopped three times already to feed the baby. There was no night or day for her. Only forest and the baby, who kept observing her, huge curious eyes fixed to her face. She knew she was crying, and felt the need to explain her behavior.

"Mommy's sad because daddy had to go away… But don't you worry. We're going to get through this. I'll take care of you. I promise."

She was going to get through everything life had stored for her. She had already gotten through the worst the world had to offer, things could only get better from here. The weather was warming rapidly. She had food. She had milk for the baby. She had the baby. At the next town she could sell the sheep and the executioner's clothes. With the money she could secure a room for her and the baby for a few days and start looking for people willing to hire a skillful maid.

And there was something more. She hadn't been barren as she had thought. There was no way mistaking the nausea and bouts of weakness for anything else. She was pregnant. The girl she was carrying on her arms would get a baby brother or baby sister from the life the executioner had given her.


End file.
